


Only the Knower Knows

by delicirony (deliciousirony), randomdestielfangirl



Series: Chronicles of Yrnedell [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, M/M, Mage Adam, Mage Castiel, Mage Samandriel, Not kidding, Prince Adam Milligan, Prince Sam Winchester, SPN Reversebang Challenge, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Undercover Castiel, Warrior Dean, emperor dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 14:51:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9766628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliciousirony/pseuds/delicirony, https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomdestielfangirl/pseuds/randomdestielfangirl
Summary: The impoverished, barren Kingdom of Asmoira has long been subservient to the Yrnedell Empire. Too beaten down to fight for independence, the people live in abject misery. An order from the Emperor arrives one winter's evening, pushing Asmoira to its limits. There is no choice but to take a stand.Castiel, one of the Royal Mages of Asmoira is sent to Fairhaven, the capital city of Yrnedell. His mission is simple - Assassinate Dean Winchester, Emperor of Yrnedell.





	1. Castiel

**Author's Note:**

> I was lucky enough to snag delicirony's lovely art for my very first SPN reverse bang challenge. This story has been a frustrating, tearful yet wonderful experience, and I probably would have given up if it weren't for these wonderful people. 
> 
> To delicirony, who is the best artist and collaborator ever! She also fulfilled the role of beta-reader, so is truly my Superhero. 
> 
> To Lexi, who did the initial beta-ing for this, and who supported and encouraged me to finish. Thank you <3
> 
> To the mods of the SPN Reverse bang challenge, for running this amazing challenge and being so supportive :)

 

Reliefs of Yrne, the Goddess of Agriculture, Hearth and Home, decorate most buildings in the Kingdom of Asmoira. The Goddess is always depicted surrounded by livestock, naked, her heavy breasts leaking milk and her hair decorated with a golden wreath of barley. Flowers bloom at her feet and a tender green pumpkin vine twists itself around her ankle. She has an expression of benign nobility, her arms outstretched and bountiful.  

 _Worship me_ , she seems to say, _and I will fulfill all your desires_.

Looking at the cast gilt-bronze panel in his room at the Guild, Castiel frowns. It doesn’t matter how hard the desperate peasants of his homeland beseech her, any harvest the poor soil yields is immediately seized to offer as a tribute to the Yrnedell Empire, leaving them with a pittance.

By the time the next sowing season comes round, peasant families are always a member or two short, dead of hunger or the bitter cold.

Castiel’s own parents had died when he was a mere infant, his father hanging from the rafters after realising he couldn’t support his wife or their baby through the winter. His mother had followed shortly after.

Yrne is a symbol of their compliance to the Yrnedell Empire, a gesture of their submissiveness to the Emperor.

Castiel hates the very sight of her.

+

“We have been summoned for an audience with the Grand Duke,” Samandriel, his partner-mage at the Guild whispers to him as they sit down for breakfast, charming open the letter that was just delivered.

“Does it mention why?” Castiel asks him, cutting his steamed turnip into careful pieces.

“None at all. Just that it is a matter of great importance and secrecy.”

“It always is,” Castiel sighs.

“Ugh,” Samandriel complains, frowning at his porridge, “this is horrendous. I wish to Yrne we get a more acceptable cook sometime soon. Even the servants at home eat better meals.”

Castiel shrugs and eats his breakfast silently. Samandriel is the only child of one of the few noble families of Asmoira and has grown up in the lap of luxury, but Castiel has subsisted on bark bread and rancid porridge in the orphanage. Even if he had survived into adulthood, he would have been nothing more than yet another landless labourer, toiling all day during the season for a bit of grain and a corner to sleep in.

His magic had saved him from that life.

+

Castiel braids his long hair carefully, tying it off with a piece of black string. His coat is lying on the bed behind him, along with the ceremonial staff presented to him on his graduation. He preferred the yew staff he had crafted himself, though the ceremonial one was better at focusing his magic. It’s fault lay in the fact that it was far too delicate to wield in a real battle.

Castiel takes one last look at himself before shrugging the coat on, an uncomfortable navy blue velvet one with fur trimmings to the hood and sleeves. There’s gold filigree work to the back and he hates how he looks in it, another pompous, empty headed nobleman, living off the blood and tears of the desperately poor souls under them.

_He remembers the day he left the orphanage clearly. He had been with Ambriel that morning and they were pretending to be angels. He had almost caught up to her when she started screaming- high, shrill, screams that reverberated down the stone corridor and brought out one of the attendants, a cane in his hand, ready to whip the offending child. He had stopped short as well and gawped at the giant black wings protruding from Castiel’s back. Someone had run to fetch the local mage’s assistant — a thin, wiry young man with pince-nez on his nose and a pinched expression._

_“They’re not real wings,” he had announced, stepping closer to a terrified Castiel._

_Castiel had known they weren’t real._

_“Then what are they?” the orphanage head had asked him, her tone wary._

_“An illusion. Take them away, boy,” he had snapped._

_Castiel had trembled, but he couldn’t._

_Huffing a disgusted sigh, the man had chanted a counter spell._

_“He has potential,” he had said, “my master would like to have him at the Academy. If he’s no good we’ll send him back, but otherwise he will stay there.”_

_Of course no one had objected, and at the tender age of ten Castiel had found himself inside the walls of the Academy, bound to be a servant of the Grand Duke ever after._

_It was only years later that he had found out that anyone who found and sent a child with magic to the Academy would be rewarded a hefty amount. He had always wondered what price he fetched._

“Castiel?” Samandriel knocks at the door, “it is time to go.”

“Very well,” Castiel says and steps out into the cold.

+

The portrait of Aravael, the legendary crown princess of Asmoira, smiles down at them as they enter the Grand Duke’s private sitting room. There are three other men already present. One of them Castiel knows well enough — Abdiel, minister of state and one of the Grand Duke Zachariah’s right hand men. The other two he only knows by sight — Raphael and Uriel, both members of the royal guard. They were both accomplished warriors, but as a mage he had very little to do with them.

“Your Grace,” Samandriel says as he and Castiel bow deeply.

“You are late,” Zachariah states coldly, “but no matter. Samandriel, charm the doors and windows. Castiel,” he says as Samandriel hurries to do his bidding, “we have summoned you both here on a matter of great importance. Would you be so kind as to read this document aloud?”

“Yes, my lord,” Castiel says, taking it from him.

The letter is from Fairhaven, the capital city of Yrnedell. It has the red dragon seal and sign of Dean Michael Winchester, the Emperor of Yrnedell, and is addressed to Governor Aton Stonewell of Asmoira, their official contact with the Empire.

Castiel is well aware that Zachariah is only a demoted King, his title but a courtesy one, all the power rests with Stonewell. Asmoira is but a vassal kingdom to Yrnedell, and it has been for hundreds of years.

“Double the tribute?” Castiel stutters as he reaches the offending line. Behind him, Samandriel utters a shocked gasp.

“That will be all,” Zachariah says, taking the letter from Castiel’s lifeless fingers, “I am sure it has dawned upon you that this is a very... _unreasonable_ request.”

“Our people will starve,” Castiel says, “we cannot survive this.”

“Can we talk to the governor?” Samandriel asks.

“We have tried appealing to Governor Stonewell. He refuses to intercede,” Abdiel says, his face impassive.

“Your Grace, can we send an ambassador to Fairhaven to request-” Castiel starts to say, but is cut off by Abdiel’s booming voice.

“And have it fail, like the innumerable times we’ve sent desperate messages before? This is hardly the first preposterous demand Fairhaven has made.”

“I...” Castiel says, looking at the red seal with disgust, “what do we do then, Your Grace?”

“I have thought long and hard about this,” Zachariah says, “my first and only concern is always for the people of our kingdom. We owe no loyalty to Yrnedell. They are a barbaric people who do not care for our suffering. You all know very well that our peaceful kingdom was attacked, our people enslaved, our land captured, all because the ancestor of the current Emperor wanted _her_.” He waves at the portrait of Aravael.

Castiel knows of the legend. How the beautiful princess was kidnapped in the night by men who claimed to be ambassadors from Yrnedell over two thousand years ago. How her broken-hearted father sent his army to rescue her, hoping to find her before they escaped. They did not expect the entire might of the Yrnedell army stationed at the border and were utterly routed in less than a fortnight.

“Since we lost the war, we have been little but _slaves_ to the Empire,” Zachariah hisses, “generations of Emperors have come and gone and Asmoira is being bled out drop by drop by each one of them. We need to gain our freedom once again.”

“But Your Grace, we cannot afford a war,” Samandriel says, his face pale.    

“We are not going to go to war,” Zachariah states, “the four of you are going to travel to Fairhaven within this week. You are going to assassinate Dean Winchester.”


	2. Dean

“Very good, Your Majesty,” Sebastian, the fencing master bows and takes the practice weapon from Dean’s hand, “your right gut defense has improved considerably.” 

“A few more weeks,” Dean gasps, taking the towel his attendant brings him, “thank you, Thomas. That will be all.”

Dean waits until Thomas has backed away with the practice weapons. 

“Lay it into me then,” he says, grimacing at his sore shoulder, “right gut defense improvement or not, today’s was a less than stellar session.”

Sebastian smiles. 

“You expect too much from yourself, Your Majesty. However, I must admit that your footwork was off today. Are you experiencing any pain? Stiffness? I did not notice it when we warmed up.”

“No, no pain,” Dean says, rolling his ankles, “the left one might be a little-” he hisses as he tries to bend his foot, “a little stiff.”

“Allow me,” Sebastian says, lifting Dean’s foot into his hands. Practiced fingers feel the tendons, gripping and squeezing till he hits the offending spot. 

Dean hisses slightly, the pain sharp and unexpected.

“Looks like a sprain,” Sebastian says, massaging his foot gently, “I think we should suspend the sessions for this week, till your foot recovers.”

“I don’t think I’ll need a whole week.”

“Normally I would agree,” Sebastian says mildly, “but we are looking to correct your footwork, and I need you at your physical best to attempt something like that. I understand you will of course power through in a battle situation but when we are learning a new stance or correcting one, it is best to be uninjured so you know exactly how it is done. Perhaps try and not ride this week?”

Dean groans a little at that and Sebastian smiles warmly at him.

“I’m afraid you will have to content yourself with merely visiting your horse at the Royal stables.”

“Fine,” Dean says, “Impala needs a break anyway, I have been riding too hard lately.”

“Your Majesty,” Thomas comes back to the training hall, looking a little breathless, “your brothers request your presence in the War Room.”

“Already? Is something wrong?” Dean asks, alarmed. He gets to his feet and makes his way to the baths, stripping off his soiled training robe. 

“It is important, but it can wait till your finish bathing, Your Majesty,” Thomas says, “ I will lay out your clothes.” 

+

“What's wrong with your foot?” Adam asks him as he enters the War Room. 

“Injured it during fencing practice. It’s fine, stop fussing,” Dean says, sinking into his chair, “where's Sam?” 

“On his way,” Adam says, sinking down to his knees to take Dean's boot off, “Bobby and Rufus are coming too. I could just heal this you know.” 

“No,” Dean grabs his hand, “just give me a poultice or something. Don't use your magic when there's no pressing need to.” 

“It's just a little sprain. I'll recover my magic in an hour.” Adam protests. 

“Exactly. It's just a little sprain, so you don't  _ need _ to knock yourself out for an hour,” Dean says, “remember the rules.”

“No magic except under life threatening conditions,” Adam chants derisively, “fine. I'll make up a poultice after the meeting.”

“Why did you call for one anyway?” Dean asks as Adam opens the door, letting Sam, Bobby and Rufus in. 

“Demons,” Sam says, drawing up a chair beside Dean. 

“Tell me everything,” Dean says sharply, sitting up. 

“Scouts have reported more deaths along the southern border, two days ride away from Neberzyias,” Bobby says gruffly, “they found a couple more farmhouses yesterday. Same pattern as the rest. Fields burnt, animals slaughtered. The people inside dismembered. Takes the total up to ten in the last few weeks.” 

“Dammit. Didn’t we have wards around these borderlands?” Dean snarls, consulting the map, “shouldn’t we be alerted every time a demon enters our land?”  

“Technically, yes,” Sam says, “but we don’t know if they’ve...” he shares a look with Bobby and Rufus. 

“They might have entered another way,” Bobby states blandly. 

Dean’s head snaps up. 

“There are two ways they can enter,” Bobby says, approaching the map, “through Asmoira, near the southwest border. The mountains there are steep, it’s difficult to plant and maintain wards there. We have a couple, but it’s not enough. And there’s Gruberg to the southeast. Wards are few because of the volcanoes there. But the terrain is so awful it should be impossible to slip through, unless they have the know-how.” 

“So you’re saying that one of the Grand Dukes there might be colluding with demons,” Dean hisses. 

“It is just a possibility. Don’t assume it is true,” Sam says carefully. 

“Any word from the messenger we sent to Neberzyias last week?” 

“None at all,” Rufus says, “it's like they vanished into thin air. We don’t know if they’re dead, but they’re definitely gone. Lucifer’s always been the shadowy sort.”

“Right, that's it. I'm leading a regiment to the borders,” Dean says, but Sam shakes his head. 

“We actually have no proof that Neberzyias is involved, not really.” 

“Oh come on Sam, it's obviously demons at work. The dismembering, the crop burning, ring any bells? What do you expect, a note at the farmhouses saying ‘Lots of love, Lucifer’?” Dean snaps. 

“We cannot make aggressive gestures without being sure,” Sam says, “also, Dean, think about how it will look. Dad’s death was only five years ago. People are just beginning to trust you and look up to you. We cannot afford to jeopardize that by having you ride out.”

“Sam’s right,” Bobby says, “you have your critics at court, people who think you were too young and too impulsive to take over the Empire after your father died. You’ll just be proving them right after all this time.”

“And that is not all,” Sam says, “even if Neberzyias is behind this, it is not a good idea for you to leave the capital to settle a few skirmishes. Look at the sort of message it sends out to Lucifer if the Emperor has to ride out to defend a couple of farmhouses. We cannot afford to look unstable.”

“A couple of farmhouses?” Dean cuts in, “they’re our people, Sam. I’m supposed to protect them.”

“I’m not saying we do nothing,” Rufus intercedes, “the point is, news hasn’t spread yet as they are so very remote. But you riding out will spread rumors, alarm people. Not everyone in the capital is your friend, boy. Leave Fairhaven unprotected now and you can bet there will be insiders trying to stir shit up.”

Dean deflates. He knows they are right, yet the thought of sitting by doing nothing while people are dying is abhorrent. 

“I can go,” Adam offers quietly, “I can leave Fairhaven without too many people talking. I mean I’ve tried scrying from here, but it didn’t really show any suspicious activity. Actually going to the farmhouses will help.” 

“That is a wonderful idea,” Sam says. 

“And I’m the best damn mage in the Empire, so finding traces of demonic activity beyond the obvious ones like sulphur… I can try, at the very least.” 

“Take a few men with you,” Dean says, “in the meantime, Sam, write to our Governors in Asmoira and Gruberg. Ask them for a full report on ward activity and any travellers or tradesmen that have passed through. If someone is betraying us, then Yrne help me I’ll have their head.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neberzyias is the name of one of the possible demon towns in Heroes Of Might And Magic 5. I thought it was appropriate.


	3. Castiel

“I would like to seek employment within, please,” Cas asks one of the Palace guards. 

The man looks him up and down and nods, seemingly satisfied. 

“Go inside through that side gate and ask for Ellen,” he says, scratching his beard, “she’ll decide what to do with you.”

Cas nods, relieved at the seeming lack of questions. They had decided that he would be the one to scout the Palace first, given that his magic made it easy for him to escape if something went wrong. 

The place is massive. Castiel passes a maze of gardens and little buildings, all strangely deserted. 

“Excuse me, where can I find Ellen?” he asks a passing maid.

“Oh, you’ve taken the wrong path,” the young girls mutters, “alright, go down the lime walk and past the stables. The Kitchens are further ahead. Ellen should be in the housekeeper’s office at about now.” 

“Thank you.”

The girl nods and smiles as she disappears.

The lime walk is cool and fragrant, and Castiel finds himself stopping every so often to admire the lovely budding flowers. Spring is almost here, and the little wildflowers on sides of the path make for a charming scene. He gathers up a couple of violets, marvelling at their delicate petals. He had only ever seen them in picture books. 

He’s passing the stables when he realises he still can’t see the Royal kitchens. Or any other building, for that matter. Just how large were the palace grounds? Confused, he’s about to retrace his steps when he hears scuffling noises from within. 

“I get the bigger share, come on, I did the actual stealing bit!” A man’s voice rings from within, deep and rich. 

“I don’t think you took that big a risk, come on…” someone else wheedles. 

“Excuse me?” Castiel calls. There’s a sudden hush. Curious, he peers inside to see three stable hands sitting around a rather large pie dish on a huge mound of hay, their mouths sticky with filling.  

“I hate to… disturb you, but I’m afraid I’m a bit lost,” he begins again, but the stable hand in the middle leaps up and drags him by the arm. Castiel makes a little oof as he’s made to sit next to him. 

“He’s new, he decides.”  

Castiel stares at him. Up close, the man is beautiful. Large, clear green eyes with eyelashes a mile long, sandy golden hair and freckles on his tawny cheeks. There’s an impish smile on his face, which only serves to emphasize the fullness of his lips. 

“What’s your name?” one of the other two ask him and Castiel jerks away from the beautiful one’s gaze. 

“Castiel.”

“Well, Castiel, consider this. These two- and by the by, he’s Aaron,” the brown eyed man on the left nods at him, “and this is Cole. My name’s Michael. Now these two wanted me to steal some pie from the kitchens and I did-”

“We helped, you idiot.” Cole interrupts.

“But I was the one in the line of fire, so don’t I deserve the last slice?”

“Yes, if we hadn’t caused a diversion you wouldn’t have gotten in,” Aaron grumbles, “if anyone was in the line of fire, it was us.”

“What do you say, Cas?” His eyes are so, so utterly green and bewitching that Castiel finds himself entranced, unable to answer for a few moments.

“I…” he looks at the pie dish, “to be honest, I think  _ I _ deserve the last slice, seeing as all three of you have had a good deal of it already… and it would be rude of you to invite me in to arbitrate and not offer me some pie in return.”

Cole and Aaron snort as Michael gapes at him. Castiel smiles at him.

“He’s a got a point you know,” Aaron says.

“Fine.”

The dish is pushed toward him unceremoniously, and Castiel suppresses a groan when he takes a bite. He had never tasted anything as good in his entire life. The filling is tart and sweet, the apples smelling of cinnamon and spring sunshine. 

“Based on that reaction, you deserve it,” Michael says, his irritation gone, “never had a pie before?”

“Nothing like this, no. In my country we eat plain food. Any richness is considered a needless indulgence and...” he breaks off, annoyed with himself. The sugar seems to have loosened his tongue more than necessary.   

“I’ve never seen you around here,” Cole says thoughtfully, “you said you were looking for Ellen?”

“Oh yes,” Castiel answers, his words muffled slightly, “I’m new to Fairhaven… and I was looking for a job. Someone told me the Palace always needs more cleaners, so…” he shrugs. 

“Yes, there’s always something or the other available,” Aaron says, “Ellen’s a bit scary, but if you don’t get intimidated and work hard, she’ll like you.” 

“Oh?” Castiel asks him, “what is it like, the job? And the Emperor? What is he like to work under?”

“For you, Cas? With that face?” Michael winks at him. “He’s going to be really  _ hard  _ to work under, if you know what I - “ he grunts as Cole pushes him off the hay, “I’m just pulling his leg, stop that!”

Castiel stares at Michael from where he’s sprawled on the ground. 

“I don’t understand.”

Michael opens his mouth, but is interrupted by an almighty yelling coming from outside. 

“IF YOU LOT HAVE STOLEN YET ANOTHER PIE I’LL WRING YOUR NECKS - ”

“Oh, blessed Yrne, she’s here!” Aaron yelps before he and Cole take off like rabbits, leaving a very confused Castiel and the still prone Michael.

A large, dark-haired lady comes tramping into the stables. She takes one look at Michael and gives a disgusted snort.  

“I should’ve have known it was you… why can’t you wait till lunch time like a normal human being, boy?”

Michael stands up, attempting to smile.

“Oh come on, Missouri - ” he starts to wheedle. 

“Not another  _ word _ out of you! And you bet you’re going to pay for this when I tell your brother about this. Now go and clean up, you  _ and _ your new friend.” 

Castiel gets to his feet as she glares at him, mouth going dry. Not an hour in and he was already in trouble. What had possessed him to forget what he was really there for?

“Come on Cas,” Michael says, looking a little sheepish, “I’ll take you to Ellen after we make you look a little more presentable.”

Missouri gives him a keen look as he follows Michael out. Castiel feels like his should is being peered into and shuffles uncomfortably until they’re out of sight. A quick wash later, Michael takes him to the Royal kitchens. A couple of maids glare at Michael as they pass by, and Castiel assumes it must be because of the pie theft earlier. Michael seems unfazed though, smiling and winking at them, and Castiel finds himself taken again by just how attractive the other man is.    

“Here we are,” Michael says cheerfully, knocking on an imposing looking door.

“Come in,” a sharp voice sounds from inside, and Michael pushes it open and breezes inside, beckoning to Castiel.

A dark haired woman looks up from her desk, frowning when she sees them. 

“There you are,” she drawls, “what did you do this time?”

“Nothing,” Michael waves her off, “I brought you a new employee.”

She turns her piercing eyes on Castiel, and it takes him a minute to collect himself enough to speak.

“Greetings, madam. My name is Castiel. I’m new to Fairhaven, and am hoping to find a job here. The guard outside told me to speak to you.”

“Hire him,” Michael says firmly. 

Ellen sighs. 

“Well if you’ve made up your mind, I guess I don’t need to ask your boy anything.”

Michael smiles, all good humor and sunshine, before he claps Castiel on the shoulder.  

“Right, I’d better get back to work. You stay with Ellen, she’ll show you the ropes.”

He lopes off, whistling. 

“Thank you for showing me the way here.” Castiel offers weakly, to the other man’s retreating back. 

“How did you get Dean to escort you?” Ellen asks him curiously.

“Dean?” Castiel stutters.“He told me his name was Michael.”

She gives him a long, incredulous look and Castiel feels like slapping himself. Of course. Dean  _ Michael _ Winchester. 

“You  _ are _ new to Fairhaven.”

“Was that…?”

“That was the Emperor.” 

Castiel gapes at her, wanting to sink into the floor in mortification. 

“He had stolen a pie and was sharing it with the stable hands,” he protests, “none of them told me.” 

But all of them had laughed, had had a giant joke at his expense. He blushes red, suddenly longing for Asmoira, where everyone knew their place. 

“He’s bored,” Ellen sighs, “he’s not allowed to ride this week, only visit that beloved horse of his, no wonder he’s up to mischief.”

She smiles at Castiel’s woebegone face.

“Cheer up, boy. You have a lot of rooms to clean.” 

+

A month had passed since they had arrived in Fairhaven. A busy, confusing month spent getting employment in and around the Royal palace, getting used to the strange food and living quarters. A few days after Castiel, Uriel and Raphael had managed to find themselves positions as gatekeeper and gardener. Samandriel, with his surprisingly good knowledge of Fairhaven cuisine joined the Royal kitchens. Like Aaron had said, there was always some job available to do.  

Castiel grimaces at the leer the toothless barkeep gives him as he notices them. 

“That’ll be four tael, gentlemen,” he says, taking the money from Castiel’s hand and handing him a rusty key, “try not to make too much noise, I’ve got other customers.”

Castiel wonders why he bothers, since the entire corridor is filled with the sounds of loud moans and grunts, and the sounds of bedsprings creaking. It was Raphael’s suggestion to meet weekly at seedy inns in Fairhaven’s red-light district and Castiel had to admit it was a good one. 

He and Samandriel slip into a dank room at the end of the corridor and almost gag at the sight of the bed, stained with possibly decades worth of bodily fluids. They took the precaution of always using different inns, but this one seemed particularly bleak. With very little argument, they choose to sit on the floor rather than risk the bed, waiting for the other two to appear. 

They were all in the palace, yet they were also nowhere close to observing and understanding Dean Winchester’s routine or habits. Castiel had not accounted for the fact that the young Emperor was fairly independent, with only his trusted valet Thomas attending to him. Zachariah had a veritable army of servants present around him at almost all times — nameless, faceless drones who went unacknowledged. They had presumed that Dean Winchester would be the same.   

There is a soft knock on the door, followed by Uriel’s low voice calling out the password. Samandriel opens it and ushers them in, charming the doors and windows after to make sure no sound carries. Raphael makes a face at the bed and sits on the floor beside Castiel, Uriel choosing to stand. 

“One of us needs to take his valet’s place,” Uriel says with no preamble. It would soon be time to send word of their progress to Zachariah and till now, they had nothing beyond a rough sketch of the palace layout. 

“We are strangers to this place, Uriel. There is no rational reason for any of us to be appointed as a personal attendant to Dean Winchester,” Castiel says. 

“We could arrange for Thomas to have an accident,” Uriel says, eyes flicking meaningfully to Castiel. 

“It still won’t help,” Castiel argues. 

“We need to get closer to him,” Uriel insists, annoyance creeping in, “I thought you were making good progress with him, Castiel. He certainly acknowledges you.”

Castiel blushes despite himself. While it was true that Dean always smiled and flirted with him on the rare occasions they ran into each other, it was still not enough.

“Not quite,” he says carefully, “he has an easy, outgoing personality and behaves that way with everyone. I’m not special in any way.”

“Why do we need to get close?” Raphael asks, “I do not understand why we cannot kill him right away. He has no personal guard and he seems to spend most of his time after court on his own. It will be easy to take down one man. What are we waiting for?”

“Our orders from his Grace are clear,” Samandriel says sharply, “remember that we were clearly commanded to insinuate ourselves in the palace, but not to hurt him till we are given permission to do so.”

“Do not underestimate him,” Castiel says, “I have heard many things about him and the chief of them is that he is a very skilled warrior. Besides, killing him without a plan of escape after is foolishness.”

Raphael scowls but does not argue further.   

“We need to somehow charm Dean Winchester enough for him to appoint Castiel as a valet, is that right?” Samandriel asks mildly, “Thomas has been with him for years and even if something happens to him, there are other people who might take his place.”

“Let us use his weaknesses against him,” Uriel drawls, “I’ve been hearing many things about the Emperor as well — and by the by, he has more detractors than supporters at court. There is one thing that detractor and supporter alike say however, the fact that he is hasty and impetuous, prone to taking decisions in a flash, overtly sympathetic to lost causes. A bit of a noble idiot, if I say so myself.” 

Castiel sits up as Uriel's words sink in. 

“I may have a plan,” he says, “but I’ll need your help, Samandriel.”

+

The two of them watch Thomas as he makes his way across the deserted tulip garden, a bundle in his hands. 

“Remember Samandriel,” Castiel whispers as he chants the invocation and conjures the images in his mind’s eye. 

“I will,” Samandriel says softly, as three dark shapes materialize in the path before them, heading towards an unsuspecting Thomas. The man before them turns around in surprise, drops his bundle and opens his mouth to scream for help, but the shadows pounce before he can. 

Castiel cautiously approaches the writhing Thomas, taking care not to be seen. Fear exacerbates the power of Illusion magic and right now Thomas is far too terrified to realize there’s nothing holding him down in reality. When Castiel sees the marks of a few wounds appear on Thomas’s limbs, cast by Samandriel much further away, he acts. 

He leaps into the fray, wooden staff in hand and pretends to knock at the shadowy figures before him. He wills them to back away, letting Thomas scream out for help. Castiel lets the struggle go on for a minute before making his apparitions run, melting them into the shadows and dissipating them before the guards burst into the scene. 

“Are you alright?” he asks Thomas, dropping to his knees before the man. 

“Please…” Thomas groans, but does not say anything else. 

The next few seconds are filled with the arrival of the palace guard. Castiel tears off a strip of his shirt and presses it into the gaping wound over Thomas’s side. The cut is clean and just shallow enough not to cause any serious harm, and Castiel marvels anew at Samandriel’s precision. Someone is shouting instructions over Castiel’s head as someone else crouches down to assist him in staunching the bleeding. 

“What the hell is going on here?” a powerful voice roars. 

A hush falls over the crowd as people move back. Castiel blinks back his surprise at the sight of Dean Winchester rushing towards them, Robert Singer and Sam Winchester hot at his heels. He had not thought they would attract such levels of attention.

“Your Majesty,” Thomas croaks, “I was attacked.”

“Search the grounds,” Dean barks out before he drops to his knees as well, green eyes fierce. 

Castiel stares at this new Dean, so different from the laughing, playful man he encountered in the stables that day. 

“Who are you?” Robert Singer asks him brusquely, but before Castiel can explain Thomas speaks again. 

“He saved me.”

Dean shoots Castiel a surprised look, seeming to take his presence in for the first time, at the wooden staff by his side. 

“The healers are here,” Sam says, “carry him inside. You,” He points at Castiel, “come with us.”

“I’ll stay here and take care of the search,” Robert Singer says, his keen eyes fixed on Castiel as well.    

“Yes, your Grace,” Castiel bows. 

+

The brothers lead Castiel to a private looking sitting room as the healers busy themselves with bandaging Thomas next door. 

“Identify yourself,” Sam says calmly, his hazel eyes sharp.

“My name is Castiel. I am a manservant at the Emperor’s section of the palace.” 

“What the hell happened back there?” Dean bites out impatiently. 

“I was in the garden, your Majesty,” Castiel says softly, “When I heard the sounds of a scuffle. It was very quiet however, I thought it might have been an animal of some sort.”

“What were you doing in the Tulip garden at this time of night?” Sam asks him. 

“I...” Castiel trains his eyes to the floor in a show of reticence, “I am far from home and sometimes- it is lonely. My tasks for the day were finished. I sometimes like to sit in the garden so I can...” he leaves the sentence dangling. Dean shoots him a small, sympathetic look, his green eyes losing some of their edge.   

“I see,” Sam says, his voice softer. “Please continue.”

“I saw two men - it could have been three - dressed all in black, pinning someone to the ground. I had my staff on me so I leapt into the fray.”

“Alone? You did not think of calling for help?” Sam asks him. 

“I,” Castiel says, “I knew there was no one nearby. He might have died before I returned with help.”

There’s a silence as both brothers trade a long meaningful look. 

“What happened next?” Dean asks him. 

“I hit one or two men with my staff. Thomas started screaming and before I knew it they were gone and the palace guard had arrived.”

“What do you remember of them? How were they armed? Did they speak?”

“They had daggers or some sort of short swords on them, I couldn’t see too well in the dark. One of them said something like ‘This is not him’ before they ran away, but I cannot be sure.”

“What did they sound like? Which province do you think they came from?”

“I...” Cas stutters. “ I do not know, your Majesty. It was a gruff voice, but I cannot tell you anything else. I am not even sure if I heard it right.”

“You are from Asmoira, are you not?” Sam asks him. 

Castiel nods. He had not bothered to hide his rather thick accent, so he knew this would come up sooner or later. Besides, Dean already knew.

“The last remaining family I had perished last winter,” he says gravely, “there is nothing left for me back there.”

There’s a long, uncomfortable, pause. Dean’s shoulders have relaxed and he’s staring at Castiel with sympathy in his gaze. It is so utterly sincere that Castiel fidgets, suddenly uncomfortable with the lies. 

There’s a knock on the door. 

“Your Majesty, your Highness,” one of the healers says, “we have done all we can for now. He is stable and responsive. If you wish to speak to him to him now, it is possible.”

“Very well,” Sam says loudly, “come, Castiel.”

He nods and follows them. 

Thomas is sitting up shirtless in bed, his right side bandaged. Dean ignores the chairs next to the bed and goes up to sit beside him. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks Thomas, eyes filled with concern. 

“I am fine, my Lord.”

“Can you tell us what happened?” Sam asks him gently, taking one of the chairs. He gestures at Castiel to sit on the other one.

“I was walking through the tulip garden with your Majesty’s robes,” Thomas says, “I cut through the garden occasionally to save time in getting to the wash house.” 

He stops to cough before he continues. 

“All of a sudden I found myself pinned down, a dagger at my throat and hands over my face. I couldn’t see them properly. I didn’t even hear them approach me. I tried to scream, to struggle but-”

“Did they say anything?” Dean asks him. 

“One of them said something like ‘It’s not him’, to which the one holding my mouth said ‘Kill him anyway’. I tried kicking out against them but - I could barely breathe, let alone move. I really thought I was going to die when I saw  _ him _ ,” He points to Castiel, “he hit the one holding me down with that staff and that let me scream for help.” 

Castiel casts his eyes down, breathing out a long, silent sigh of relief. He had worried that Thomas might be too frightened to hear the words properly. He risks a glance at the brothers. Sam’s brow is furrowed and Castiel hopes he’s reached the obvious conclusion. Dean however, is not looking at him.

“You  _ do _ look like me in the dark, I guess,” Dean says slowly, wonderingly, “and I do go to the garden sometimes after a ride.”

“We will discuss this later,” Sam says sharply, getting up, “we’ll see you soon, Thomas. Take care of yourself.”

They leave the room together. Castiel bows to them both and backs away to leave when Sam speaks again.

“Castiel, I commend for your exceptional bravery. You will be rewarded.”

“I was only doing my duty,” Castiel protests, discomfited. 

“Nevertheless,” Sam says, finally breaking into a little smile. Castiel smiles back awkwardly, wishing he could leave. 

Dean steps forward and drapes his arm around Castiel’s shoulder.

“I’ll escort Cas here back to his room,” he calls back to Sam, “meet you in the study later.”

He steers Castiel away, taking a longer route than normal. Dean doesn’t question him about the evening’s incident, preferring to ask Castiel about his job, about his companions, about how he’s liking living in Fairhaven. Dean has a hypnotizing presence, one that induces confidence, so Castiel answers him carefully,trying not to give too much information away.  

“You did good today, Cas,” Dean tells him when they reach Castiel’s room, patting him of the shoulder, “sleep well.”

+

The note arrives at his door the next morning, apprenticing him to Thomas.

Castiel smiles. 


	4. Dean

“Something’s not right about that man,” Sam says after Dean comes back. 

“You think so?” Dean asks him, “but you were the one who said it was brave of him to leap into a fight like that.”

“Well yes, that’s what I told him, I’m hardly going to accuse him to his face with no proof whatsoever,” Sam mutters, annoyed, “why didn’t he scream for help? I can see why he hesitated to run and get it, but why didn’t he shout? It doesn’t make any sense. And there is the fact that he’s from Asmoira.”

“We have lots of people from there working for us, Sam. Let’s not generalize. And yes, I know he’s new.”

“I’m not trying to imply anything, Dean. He could just be stupidly brave or maybe he just acted without thinking. I just- I just think we should keep an eye on him.”

Dean sighs. He trusts Cas, he really does. But he also knows that he tends to trust people too easy, based on too little. The first sight of Cas, adorably rumpled, dressed in cheap cotton overshirt and trousers, his too blue eyes wide and confused as Dean dragged him into the stables… it had charmed him. He firmly believes Cas is a good man, yet he doesn't want to discount Sam’s warning. 

“You know,” Dean says after a while. “Thomas is probably not going to be up to doing much for a while. Make Castiel his apprentice. If there is something off about him, I’d rather have him close by my side than unsupervised somewhere.”

“It is a little risky, letting someone so new work so close to you,” Sam says doubtfully.

“I can take care of myself. And Thomas can keep an eye on him too. He’s new here, he can’t have too much help coming from within the court. Did Ellen tell you anything about what he’s like?”

“She didn’t have too much to say. Quiet, works hard. Occasionally goes to the red-light district - ” Sam breaks off as Dean raises his eyebrows and lets out a whistle. “What?”

“Nothing,” Dean says, smirking a little. “Man’s got needs, I get it. Although I do wonder why he needs to pay...” his mind wanders to Cas, to the strong thighs, the powerful hands, the broad chest. The strange mixture of innocence and fire in those beautiful eyes... 

“Ellen says he never drinks too much or harasses the maids, so she doesn’t care.”

Dean startles and looks at Sam’s half-amused, half-exasperated expression. 

“Only cares when I go, I see,” he grumbles, looking away from Sam, “look, none of this sounds even remotely suspicious, but apprentice him anyway. If he’s innocent, he deserves the promotion. If he’s not, well - ” he pats his sword. 

Sam raises his eyebrows, but nods.

+

Castiel is a good valet-in-training. He’s quiet, unobtrusive and meticulous with details. Thomas still takes care of Dean’s weapons and armour, but Dean slowly starts getting used to the sight of Castiel at his side during other times.

Castiel also doesn’t bat an eyelash when Sam asks him to take Thomas’s place as the food taster at the lunch table. All food served is already tested once in the kitchens, but Dean’s grandfather had introduced the custom of a food taster at the table as well after one of his meals had been tampered with en-route. True, it was only one of his nephews adding a glug of spoiled milk into the soup for a prank, but the incident had alarmed Henry Winchester enough to start with the practice and it had continued. 

“Adam sent a message,” Sam informs him two weeks later. They were in the war room with Bobby and Rufus, Sam having called an emergency meeting. 

“Did he find any traces?” Rufus asks him. 

“Apparently he did. There was another farmhouse hit this week, but this time the job was messy. It was like they’d been interrupted. Adam says the place reeked of sulphur.”

“Dammit!” Dean bangs his fist on the table, “we can’t just sit on our asses, waiting for them to send raiding parties!”

“Don’t seem like raiding parties, boy,” Bobby says, “it doesn’t make sense though, none of the wards have tripped, not even the ones in Asmoira and Gruberg. Someone’s certainly helping them from within, but random attacks at the border can’t be the goal.”

“Adam says he’s been hearing things,” Sam says cautiously, passing the letter to Dean, “they’ve been rumours about a change in leadership.” 

“They want to get rid of Dean,” Bobby says bluntly. 

“That certainly is worth the risk in crossing the border,” Rufus says, his head bent over the marked location of Adam’s latest find, “I wouldn’t count that amateurish attempt on Thomas’s life a few weeks ago as a demonic threat though, it was too sloppy for them.”

“It could’ve been an internal one though,” Bobby says, “I searched the grounds personally afterwards. There wasn’t a trace of them anywhere. It was like they vanished into thin air.”

“Many things about that attack don’t add up,” Sam grumbles, “Thomas mentioned only three men, armed with  _ daggers _ . If that was Dean, he would’ve fought them off easily. Unless they had a solid plan for subduing him somehow, but if they did why didn’t they use it immediately?”

“They could have been hired thugs found at a back alley though,” Bobby says dismissively, “none too bright, but slippery enough to escape.”

“Maybe,” Sam says, standing up and heading to the door, “there’s some maps I want to check in the library, so I’ll meet you back at lunch. I still think you need a personal guard.”

“No,” Dean says, reaching for his writing materials. There are a couple of things he needs Adam to check before he comes back, “Cas and Thomas are enough for me. Have we got word from the governers yet?”

“We have. They deny any demons passing through,” Rufus says. 

“Show me the letters,” Dean says, tapping his pen against the desk, “and start compiling a list of people we can send to check on the two kingdoms. Diplomatic nightmare or not, I’m getting to the bottom of this.”

+

“After this, come to the library with me,” Sam whispers to him as they sit down for lunch, “I think I found a possible route.”

“Fine,” Dean says testily as Castiel bows to them both, “go ahead, Cas.”

They watch as Castiel does the routine food test. Dean’s head is pounding from the stress, there are court matters to attend to, a trade treaty to sign, complaints about arson in North Fairhaven that he needs to follow up on. Bobby and Rufus have picked a team of three reliable courtiers each to send to Asmoira and Gruberg, all unrelated to each other so the intelligence can’t be distorted. As both kingdoms are technically independent, he can’t send too much of a guard with them because it would be misinterpreted as a show of aggression. 

A gasping sound breaks him from him thoughts and he glances up to see Castiel collapse. 

“Cas!” Dean takes in the man’s rapidly paling face and snaps, “Sam! Get the antidote!”  

Next to him, Sam’s already on his feet, calling for help, opening the bottle with a standard antidote that Adam had crafted a long time ago. Dean forces Castiel’s mouth open and Sam pours in the draught. For a minute, nothing happens. Dean gently brushes the sweaty hair off Castiel’s face as his eyes roll back, his breathing shallow.

“Healers are here,” Sam says, tapping at Dean’s arm, “come on, we need to talk.”

“Not until I know he’s okay,” Dean snaps. 

“He will live, your Highness,” one of the healers murmurs as they pour another draught into Castiel’s mouth. 

Dean doesn’t protest further as Sam hurries him away, but the phantom feeling of Castiel’s rapid, bird-like breathing on his arm remains.   

+

Another search of the palace occurs, with nothing turning up. The kitchen staff are questioned extensively and the food is tested once again. No trace of a recognizable poison shows up in the initial testing. 

“You need to be have a proper guard,” Sam frets, “it’s the second attempt on your life in a month, Dean.”

“No amount of personal guard is going to stop things like these from happening,” Dean says angrily.

“But - ”

“I’m sick of having innocent people getting hurt because of me, Sam!”

“Just...” Sam sighs and rubs a hand over his face, “just be careful, alright? The Empire needs you now, we cannot afford any instability.”

“I know that. I’m going out for a ride.  _ Alone, _ ” Dean snaps when he sees Sam about to object, “I’ll be back before sunset and I’m armed to the teeth. Trust me.”

Sam purses his lips, but waves him off. 

+

He checks in on Castiel before he leaves. The healers assure him that the poison has been neutralized, but the man still looks ill and weak. The memory of him collapsing before his eyes haunts Dean as he rides Impala into the woods. It was his favorite place to hide as a child, pretending to be pirates or hunters with Sam and Adam. Dean sighs as he spreads out his coat on the forest floor. The smell of wildflowers is intoxicating and even the late afternoon light is muted.

He doesn’t know what else he can do. Before his father died, Dean had the power and the freedom to go out and solve things for himself. But with John dying and the court restless, questioning his every move… Dean knew this afternoon’s ride would be another strike against him, but the thought of another minute in the palace surrounded by responsibilities at every turn, people demanding his attention every second of the day, the strain of keeping the sloppy assassination attempts against him quiet- it was driving him mad. 

He watches Impala neigh softly and nibble on some grass. Cas was another issue he had been avoiding thinking about. He knew Sam didn’t trust him too much and Dean was self-aware enough to know that most of his trust came from the fact that he found Cas charming. 

Thomas had been his attendant since he was eighteen and Dean a boy of five, so there is a familiar fatherly tone to their interaction. But Cas… Dean likes him despite himself. Likes his steady calm, the way he instinctively knows when Dean needs his space. There’s always a cup of tea at his desk on the nights he pores over reports. His bath is always drawn just right. A sachet of Eucalyptus and Peppermint was tucked under his pillow after a wet ride. And there is the man himself, the way his long dark hair cascades gently down his back on the rare occasions Dean has seen it out of its usual braid. The way those blue eyes sparkle just a little when Dean thanks him. The little half-smile he has when Dean makes a joke or two. 

Before he knows it, Impala is nudging him from where he’s fallen asleep. It’s almost dark and Dean shivers a little as he rides back, hoping Sam’s been buried enough with work to not notice his absence. 

+

He’s about to slip in through one of the side entrances when he hears the voices. Dean doesn’t recognize the gatekeeper, a tall man with a shaven head.

“Please let us in, we really need to see the Emperor!”

There are two young girls at the western gate of the palace, one dark-haired and one blonde, looking to be in their late teens. 

“Out, you can say whatever it is when he’s holding court for the public,” the man snarls and shoves them back. Dean sees red. 

“Stop that,” he says firmly, making the gatekeeper startle. 

“Your Majesty,” he stammers, “they’re just a couple of troublemakers.”

“I will decide that,” Dean says dismissively and looks at the terrified faces of the girls, “why did you want to see me?”

“Your highness,” the blonde one bows deeply, “our mother is being harassed by a local shopkeeper. We’ve complained lots of times, but nothing’s happening.”

“Take me to him,” Dean says, as the gatekeeper splutters behind him. 

“Your Majesty, you cannot leave the palace for such petty matters such as these! The police can help-”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Dean snaps, “and consider yourself out of a job and take the wages that are owed to you. I will not let anyone treat my subjects this way,” he turns back to the girls, “lead the way.”

+

Dean takes the precaution of putting his hood up as he lets Impala trot behind them. He’s dressed like an ordinary soldier, so they don’t attract much attention as the girls lead him to the poorer parts of West Fairhaven. The streets get narrower as they progress but the two of them seem to know where they’re going. 

“Our mother is in here, your Majesty,” the younger one says, stopping in front of a dilapidated looking house. 

Dean hesitates. He’s sure he knows almost every inch of Fairhaven but he’s certain he’s never seen this building or this alleyway before. There’s a harsh, shrill cawing as he dismounts Impala and Dean instinctively reaches for his sword. 

“You’re not as dumb as they said you were,” the brunette one says, smirking. 

“Who the hell are you?” Dean asks them, “I don’t want to have to hurt you, but if you don’t come quietly I will be forced to.”

The two girls laugh and take out a long, sharp dagger from beneath their robes. 

“Oh honey, hurting us is the least of your worries,” the blonde one says as Dean unsheathes his sword with a clink. 

Their eyes turn black. Dean’s startled for a second before he raises his sword to parry their attacks. He tries to thrust at the first one’s wrist and twist to disarm her, but misses. Dean hisses in pain as something stabs him in the shoulder. Dean gives a sharp kick and knocks one of them down before backing up, looking at his shoulder in disbelief. No dagger could have cut through his armour. 

“Your fancy gear isn’t going to protect you, you know,” one of the girls says in an amused voice.

Dean doesn’t reply, weighing his options. Armour-piercing dagger or not, he’s still better trained and stronger than either of them. For the next several minutes he evades their blows, trying to spot a weakness. But every time he pushes to attack, he misses and they end up getting another blow in. 

“Want to give up?” the blonde one sneers as she ducks to avoid his swing. Dean leaps back, spitting some blood on to the ground. 

“Shut up you bitch,” he snarls as she stabs him in the thigh.

“Ah-ah-ah,” she singsongs at him, “that wasn’t a nice thing to say now, was it?” 

Dean grunts as her sister charges at him and knocks the sword out of his hand. 

He tries to scramble for it but is shoved back. The blonde one straddles him, her breasts looming over his face. Her sister holds the dagger close to his throat and try as he might, he cannot move an inch. The girl straddling him leans closer to him, her breath ghosting in his ear, her hair falling over his face.

“Goodnight, baby boy,” she whispers. 

 


	5. Castiel

“Castiel, wake up!” there’s a frantic voice babbling near his ear and hands shaking roughly at his shoulder. “Here, just drink this.”

Castiel gags as a potion is poured down his throat. It tastes like sunflower seeds and moss, but his head becomes perfectly clear as it goes down his gullet. Samandriel looks strained and unhappy, his hands trembling as he places the bottle on the ground.

“Why did you give me the antidote now?” Castiel asks him, confused. “I thought the plan was to let me recover naturally. The King and his brother are going to find this very suspicious.”

“Castiel, listen to me. There’s something wrong with all of this- this entire plan. I just saw the King being led away by two demons, Uriel was there too. You have to rescue him.”

“Demons?” Castiel asks him, leaping out of bed and grabbing for his clothes. “What about Uriel? I thought we weren’t supposed to act till orders arrived. He always seemed impatient, but allying with demons-”

“I overheard Uriel and Raphael yesterday. They were talking about how the time had come, but they didn’t talk any details. I’ve been keeping an eye on them ever since. There’s no time to lose now, we can talk later.”

“Right.” Castiel says, pulling his hair up. “Which way did he go?”

+

_ Working with demons? _

Castiel’s head is spinning as he races toward West Fairhaven, trying to track the faint traces of demonic energy. Demons were a chaotic force, never to be trusted, never to be allied with. Nothing much was known about Neberzyias or its mysterious king, but Asmoira’s borders had suffered from sporadic demonic attacks for generations. The difficulty arose in the fact that they couldn’t be killed. Castiel’s mentor had told him a long time ago that demons were not quite real- they existed on the edge of life and death, a shadowy presence that could only be temporarily paralyzed by most weapons. The only other way was to destroy their corporeal forms with the help of a powerfully charmed blade, a maneuver that would banish them from this place of existence. 

He finds the alley almost by accident. There’s a small shift of planes set between a gambling house and an iron ware store and he would have never noticed it but for the clear signs of dark magic around it. He prepares to chant the incantation, then stops. A cloaking spell takes too much time to put into effect, and he doesn’t have most of the ingredients on hand. But he can’t have Dean recognize him now. Castiel looks around, despairing slightly until he sees a couple of drunken soldiers sprawled outside the tavern opposite. He walks slowly up to them and steals one’s helmet. He puts it on, it covers most of his face, and pulls up his scarf to cover his mouth. Luckily he’s dressed in an ordinary brown tunic and trousers- nothing that would set him apart from a hundred other inhabitants in Fairhaven.

Making sure no one sees him, Castiel quickly mutters the incantation to open the portal. He passes cautiously through the portal, turning into a deserted looking street. It’s a mimic of the street Castiel has just passed, so Dean must not have noticed the difference. He runs along the length of the it, but the sounds of metal are ephemeral, always present yet slipping away. There’s no sign of anyone. 

“Concentrate,” he tells himself. Demons are masters of illusion, but most of them can only do low level stuff- parlour tricks, really. Building an alternate dimension of this size and scope... he wonders just how powerful the two of them are. He remembers hearing rumours of high level demons bending whole realities to their will, but they rarely ventured from Neberzyias. How did Uriel even get into contact with them? How did they enter the Empire with no one noticing them? 

He closes his eyes and breathes out, using his magic to test the boundaries of the space he’s in. He slowly examines the walls, tapping at the edges of it with his mind. The desperate clang of metal continues, but now he can hear the King’s muffled voice, the loud roaring of his horse. He feels his way along the path, not opening his eyes, letting his magic guide him. He finds a second tear in the plane and mutters the counter-incantation. A dimension with a dimension.

He manages to slip through the gap and sees the Emperor’s horse struggling to move from where it’s been trapped with magic, and Dean himself on the ground, his sword flung away to the side. Castiel takes out his own blade and creeps closer to the scene.

Luckily for him, the two demons are too engrossed in taunting Dean and the furious roars of Impala muffle any sounds he makes. He knows he has only one chance to do this right, so he waits till the one on top bends over the prone Dean before rushing forward and stabbing her in the back. She screams loudly and Castiel stabs her again before plunging his blade into the other demon. 

“Who the hell are you?” Dean’s panicked voice sounds from under the corpse of the first demon. 

Castiel pushes her aside with a thump and runs his hands over the Dean’s body, checking for injuries. 

“Who are you?” Dean demands again imperiously, “answer me!”

Castiel ignores him and pours his power into healing Dean, knitting his flesh back together. He gasps as his magic drains away rapidly, batting away Dean’s hands as the latter tries to grab at him. He only manages to heal the Dean’s thigh and part of his shoulder before he stops, not wanting his magic to drain out completely. 

“Are you alright?” Dean asks him in a much gentler tone, trying to sit up, “who are you?”

Castiel shakes his head, the dizziness almost overwhelming him. 

“You saved me,” Dean says, “I will take care of you. You have my word.”

_ He really is a noble idiot  _ Castiel thinks shakily before he walks up to Impala and frees the stallion, Dean following hot at his heels. 

“Come with me.”

Castiel hesitates, then gently places his hand on Dean’s jaw. The man’s eyes close as he slumps forward into Castiel’s arms. The unconsciousness is temporary and will not last more than an hour. More than enough time for Castiel to make his way back to the palace. 

He places Dean carefully on the ground next to his stallion, soothing the agitated Impala with a touch of his hand. An alternate dimension once created cannot be destroyed, so he merely expands the path so Dean can find his way back once he awakens. 

+

“Samandriel.”

“I was waiting for you,” the other man says. “Did you manage to rescue him?”

“Yes. He should be on his way here soon.”

“You look terrible,” Samandriel says, charming the doors and windows. “Has your magic drained?”

“Unfortunately, almost all of it is gone. He was quite badly injured, I had to heal a few of them at least. Now tell me- what have you found out? Where are Uriel and Raphael?”

“I don’t know, Castiel. And I fear- I think it was on Zachariah’s orders that they laid this trap for the Emperor. But to consort with demons- They are our bitterest enemies- They are  _ everyone’s _ bitterest enemies- How could something like this happen?”

Castiel bites his lip. 

“I think-” he starts to say, looking at the stricken expression on Samandriel’s face. “I think we have to reconcile ourselves to the fact that this must have been the plan from the start. The demons I fought off were more powerful than any I’ve seen in recent memory. I doubt they just strolled past the border without any of the wards activating, so they must have come through-”

“Asmoira,” Samandriel says, face ashen. 

“Precisely. We were being sent here set up to take the fall, if it came to that.”

There’s a silence as Samandriel lets out a long, despairing breath.

“What do we do now?” he asks Castiel.

“We throw our lot in with Yrnedell and protect Dean Winchester,” Castiel sighs, “there is no going back home now.”

“But Castiel, to support our enemies, the people who are bleeding our Kingdom dry-”

“We have to,” Castiel says. “I am sorry about this, Samandriel. But there is a right and wrong here. I love my country and home, but I will not protect it at the cost of dealing with demons. We know how they operate- there’s no charity involved. Letting demons kill Dean Winchester would unleash chaos into the entire Empire- Asmoira included. And-” he fidgets a little. “The Emperor himself- From what I have seen of him, he is good  to his subjects and kind to his dependants. I- I was not easy within myself at the thought of killing him, but I still would have done my duty to my people because I thought it was the best way to gain independence for Asmoira. However, the moment demons are involved, I cannot. We are just exchanging one slavery for another and-” he breaks off.    

Samandriel nods, but doesn’t press him any further. 

“It is going to be difficult to protect him. If demons are involved- they don’t give up easily. Have you considered telling the Emperor...?”

“No,” Castiel says firmly, “I do not think that is a good idea. I have been deceiving him all this while, gaining his trust. If we confess now- why would he believe us? There’s nothing to prove we were blindsided by our own companions.”

“But he must have seen you today.”

“No. I had a helmet on, and it was very dark. It disguised only my face, but all he can do is guess at my height. That tells him nothing. In any case, he’s convinced I am in bed and ill so I do not think he will guess it is me. And I did not speak to him.”

“Very well,” Samandriel says, twisting his hands together, “how do we protect him from demons? Do you have an amulet or charm on you?”

“We will need to craft one,” Castiel says, “I’ll need your magic.”

+

It is hours later that he remembers that he has left his dagger behind, buried in the demon’s corpse.  

 


	6. Dean

When Dean opens his eyes, Impala is nickering, ears pushed up hopefully. The street is deserted, lit up by a faint sliver of moonlight. Dean strokes Impala’s dark silky back and stands up, feeling his right knee twinge painfully. His sword is lying a little distance away, next to the two bodies. Dean cautiously makes his way across and picks up his weapon, checking it for sign of damage. It’s then that he notices the thin silver dagger buried in the girl’s chest. 

But more than the dagger, it is the body that surprises him- there isn’t a trace of blood anywhere.   

He deliberates for a while, then slowly pulls out the dagger. It’s edge is clean and smooth, and there’s a faint thrum of power underneath its surface. Enchanted blade, Dean thinks. He tucks it away carefully before bundling up the two corpses. They’re surprisingly light, and yet Dean knows how much he struggled against them when pinned down. 

He rides quickly toward the palace. Bobby would want to have a look at them. 

+

“I thought I just told you not to go out wandering on your own!” Sam barks at him as he helps Dean unload the bodies into the morgue. 

“I can take care of myself,” Dean says firmly, “now go and call Bobby. I want him to take a look at them.”

“You’re injured,” Sam frets, but sends the message anyway, “let me have a look.”

Dean wants to protest, but he can see by the thinning of Sam’s lips that his little brother is close to losing his composure in a big way, so he sits back and lets Sam fuss. There are bags under Sam’s eyes and his hair has lost its usual shine. Dean feels briefly guilty for not listening to him, but Cas’s near-poisoning proved that staying inside the palace was no safer. 

“Heard you got yourself into another scrape, boy,” Bobby’s face is grumpy as he comes in, eyes lingering on the corpses Sam and Dean set up on the table.  

Dean nods sheepishly as Bobby pulls out a dollop of salve from a small jar from his pocket. He coats his hands with it before briskly examining the corpses, occasionally barking orders at Sam or Dean to fetch him something or the other from the cabinets. 

“Definitely demons,” Bobby mutters after a while, peering into the burnt out hollows of their eyes, “technically, these aren’t even human bodies, they’re made of grave dirt and clay, reanimated with the help of demonic energy.” 

“Demons in non-human bodies?” Dean asks him, surprised, “but they didn’t- Bobby I swear they didn’t look like any demon I’ve ever encountered. No demon ought to be able to pierce my armour. They did. And there was no smell of sulphur around.”

“Not all demons reek of sulphur though...” Sam mumbles, “I’ve heard rumors of higher level ones that are not so obvious. They don’t even need to possess anyone. They can create their own bodies.”

“What happened exactly?” Bobby asks him, eyes keen. 

And Dean tells them everything, from the eerily deserted street to the mystery man who seemingly came out of nowhere. Sam and Bobby don’t interrupt him, but they do begin to look increasingly concerned when Dean shows them the dagger the stranger left behind. 

“Well first things first,” Bobby says at the end of it, “I’ll go ahead and interrogate that guard of yours. There’s no way he wasn’t involved.”

“I’ll go and take a look at that pocket dimension,” Sam sighs, “are you sure they are demons though, Bobby? Couldn’t it be a rogue group of mages? To create a whole different dimension…”

“Doesn’t account for the bodies, boy. You can’t fake demonic energy. Besides, we know that Lucifer is stirring things up, this hasn’t come out of nowhere.”

“That dagger…” Dean interrupts, “can you tell what magic it’s imbued with?”

“Not without help,” Bobby says, turning the blade over in his hands, “we’ll need to get it properly investigated by one of the court mages, but I’ll need to pick someone we can trust. If your brother were here…” he trails off. 

“Tell me more about this mystery rescuer of yours. What did he look like?” Sam asks him. 

Dean ponders this. 

“He had a helmet on and a scarf drawn across his face. Dressed in a brown tunic of some sort. Blue eyes. Dark hair, I could see the ends of it on the nape of his neck despite the scarf. Tallish. Solidly built with powerful wrists.”

“That doesn’t tell us much,” Bobby says, frowning. “Did he speak?”

“No.”

“This man…” Sam asks him, “did he resemble Castiel?”

“I knew you’d ask that, but no. Blue eyes and dark hair aren’t _ that _ unusual. And I looked in on Cas before I left in the afternoon. He was definitely in no shape to go adventuring about.”

Sam bites his lip and frowns some more, but doesn’t argue the point.

“Go to bed now though, both of you,” Bobby says, “you’ve had a long day. It’ll still be there tomorrow.”

+

There’s a small bronze amulet on his pillow, a note underneath it. 

Dean stares at it for the longest time,wondering if he should call Sam, but decides to let his brother sleep in peace. He pulls his gauntlets back on before slowly lifting the amulet. It’s round and flat like a coin with strange symbols etched on that look like runes. Dean places it back on the pillow, picking up the note instead. The writing is  beautiful - long, flowing letters that run elegantly though the length of the paper.

_ Dean, _

_ I quite understand that this must seem highly suspect, but I will make the request that you accept the amulet. Keep it on your person at all times. It has been charmed to prevent another attack like the one you suffered earlier today. The opponents you faced used illusion magic to confuse your senses, so you were quite unable to attack them. Wearing this will grant you True Sight.  _

_ A well wisher. _

Dean sits on his bed, confused. The paper is ordinary, thin and cream colored, and the handwriting is unfamiliar. An illusion? He knows illusion magic is a notoriously iffy branch of magic, most skilled practitioners only able to hold down an illusion for a couple of minutes or so. There’s no way even demons could have… yet he remembers never being able to touch them, the almost impossible dodges the two demons made. 

He goes to his desk and rummages around for some paper. He needs more answers and one ambiguous note is not going to cut it. 

_ Well wisher, _

_ I thank you once again for saving my life. I do not understand your need to hide your identity, but I will not press this issue for now. I have questions however. The two girls who attacked me, what were they? I also did not find their weapons upon their corpses. If you know of any conspiracy that is threatening my land or my people, I beg of you to let me know. _

_ I hope you are uninjured, _

_ Dean.  _

He leaves it on his desk, confident the man would arrive sometime to check if his gift was received. The amulet itself he slips into his pocket - well wisher or not, he wants Bobby or Rufus to have a look at it before he actually wears it. 

He blows out the lamp and gets into bed, slipping into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

+

There is indeed a new note on his desk the next morning. 

_ Dean, _

_ By your phrasing of the question as ‘What are they?’ I assume you have understood that your opponents were not quite human, but powerful demons. Their weapons were part of their own selves, so they disappeared when they were banished. I can only inform you that the threat to your life is still very much present, and ask you to be vigilant.  _

_ I am well, and I thank you for your concern.  _

_ Well wisher.  _

Dean gathers up both notes and goes to find Sam before breakfast can start. He briefly wonders if he ought to leave a reply to this as well, but decides against it. He has a lot of court affairs to deal with today, things that can’t be put off any longer, but Sam can do some research in the meantime.

+

“So someone is able to get through all the palace defenses and leaving you notes on your pillow,” Sam says acidly. 

“Well, yes,” Dean drawls, “but think about it, Sam. No one knew where I was. He didn’t exactly have to save me. He didn’t even stay afterward, what can he possibly gain from this?”

Sam huffs, clearly defeated. 

“Look, just take this and ask Bobby or Rufus to run the usual tests on it. And find out what you can about the street where they took me,” Dean says, heading toward the door, “I’m going to be meeting people all day, so most likely I can see you only tonight. Any word from Adam?”

“Not yet. I’ll take care of this, don’t worry.”

Dean smiles wryly. 

“Wish I could stop.”


	7. Castiel

“Uriel and Raphael are missing,” Samandriel tells him during the servants’ lunch hour. 

“It is to be expected,” Cas says, lying back on the bed. It would not do to recover from his ‘poisoning attempt’ so soon and after yesterday’s magic drain, he’s grateful for the rest, “they must still be in Fairhaven. I do not imagine they will give up so quickly.”

“Perhaps we have prevented the worst of it for now. If the demons from yesterday were as powerful as you say they were, I do not see how they can make another attempt soon.”

“I do not think yesterday’s incident was planned to be honest,” Castiel muses, “think about it, Samandriel. What were the chances of the Emperor riding back alone and entering through the Western gate on any other day? None at all. I think it was a hastily concocted plan after they saw Dean ride out in anger - probably Uriel’s work. He has been impatient since we’ve arrived.”

“Perhaps.”

“This would mean though, that Uriel has been in regular contact with some pretty powerful demons. If we can find any trace of the communication... “

“Let me try,” Samandriel says, “as far as Uriel and Raphael know, we are not involved in the Emperor’s rescue. They must have just assumed that Dean fought them off himself. Which explains the last-minute panicking and running off.”

“You don’t think they are still in Fairhaven?”

“Zachariah will have their head if they go back to Asmoira without completing the mission. They must have holed up at one of our usual spots or at least left traces of where they’ve gone.”

“Be careful, Samandriel,” Castiel says, grabbing the other man’s arm. 

Samandriel smiles a little, his eyes twinkling. 

“There is a reason I’m excellent at spy work, Castiel. Don’t worry about it. Focus on keeping Dean safe.”

+

“How are you feeling, Cas?” Dean’s soft voice interrupts him from his reading a couple of days later. 

Castiel sits up straight, alarmed. The book slips from his hands and lands with a thud on the floor. Dean chuckles as he bends down to pick it up, a rather terrible romance novel that Samandriel had found abandoned in the gardens. 

“I didn’t think you liked to read books like these.” 

“I don’t,” Castiel hastens to explain, forgetting his manners, “it’s a little dull, lying around like this all the time and...” 

Dean continues to look amused, but lets it go. 

“Tell me then, Cas,” he says, “how are you feeling?”

“I am very well, your Majesty. I can return to my duties by tomorrow.”

“Don’t push yourself,” Dean says, his green eyes softening, “we can’t have you relapsing.”

Castiel smiles awkwardly at him, wondering just why Dean is here. 

“You know,” Dean says after a pause, turning the book over in his hands, “if you are interested in reading, I can have some books sent to you from the Library. What books would you like to have?”

“I… I am honoured, your Majesty.”

“You don’t need to be that formal, Cas. I consider my staff family, and you’ve done far more than your share of duty. You risked your life for me,” Dean places a hand on top of his, “I consider you a friend, Castiel.”

Castiel drops his eyes, a scorching sense of shame overwhelming him. Dean is so kind, so noble, so utterly good that he finds it incredibly jarring. 

“Why do you ask for tributes?” Castiel whispers, half hoping he wouldn’t be heard.

“What?”

He takes a deep breath and decides then, to just go ahead and ask  _ why _ . 

“Why do you ask for tributes from Asmoira? Do you know how difficult our lives are? How many people scrimp and scrape and starve to pay the tax out of the little money they make from the harvest? Your capital, your land, it lacks for nothing. You have farms and ports and mines in abundance. Then why… why?”

“Cas,” Dean’s voice is shocked enough to make him look up, “I have never taken any form of tribute from Asmoira, nor has my father or grandfather before me.”

Castiel stares at him, uncomprehending.

“The blood money was paid in full over a hundred years ago, Cas. It was always meant to be temporary.” 

“What?” Castiel asks him, dazed. Dean stares at him for a minute before frowning deeply. 

“Cas, you do know that there was a fixed amount of blood money to pay for the loss of the villages right?”

Dean sighs at Castiel’s look of utter blankness.

“Five of our villages were razed to the ground and every inhabitant in it killed - man, woman and child - by the Asmoiran army, all because they dared to protect the Asmoiran princess from harm.”

“Your men kidnapped her!” Castiel says angrily, before he can stop himself. 

“No,” Dean says, “our Empire sent a group of emissaries to ask for Princess Aravael’s hand. She and the then Crown Prince of Yrnedell were childhood lovers, her letters to him are preserved in the Royal Archives. The Asmoiran King welcomed them warmly, promised to send an answer the next day, and then slaughtered them in their beds.”

_ Every word of Dean rings true in his head, but it can’t be... It simply cannot… _

“You’re lying… you have to be,” Castiel says feebly.

“Am I, Castiel?” Dean asks him, sounding a little annoyed himself, “do you really think I am?”

Castiel searches his face, but he can see nothing but sincerity and some amount of righteous indignation. Dean in the meantime, presses on relentlessly. 

“One of them, however, escaped, as he was delivering a secret letter to Princess Aravael at the time. Coming back to see his companions dead, he alerted her and they fled, on her insistence. She was petrified that she would be forcibly married to someone else. They managed to reach the border village in time, but the Asmoiran army was in pursuit. The people of the villages tried to help her; some of them escorted her as far as they could, deeper into the Empire while the others made a last stand.”

Dean breaks off, his face hardening slightly. Castiel cannot even breathe.

“A message was sent, but by the time the army arrived, five villages had been decimated. A battle followed, the results of which are familiar to you of course,” Castiel looks down, unable to meet that penetrating gaze any longer, “we could have conquered Asmoira, taken away her independence, but the princess pleaded for her land to remain free and so it was. But you must agree that  _ some _ compensation had to made for the loss of civilians.”  

“Yes,” Castiel whispers, “but why are we still paying for it?”

Dean doesn’t answer for a long time, biting his lip. 

“Believe me, Cas, when I say that this is the first I have ever heard of it. As far as I know, the debt was paid years ago. Your monarchy couldn’t be restored after what happened, and I know we have a governor there, but it is more of an honorary post. We have never interfered with Asmoira, or its internal affairs.”

There’s a silence. Castiel stares at his blanket, his heart pounding. For a moment, he is lost, longing for Asmoira, for the simpler times where Yrnedell and its ruler were responsible for all the ills that plagued his home. With every day spent close to Dean Winchester, he had faltered, wondering if he was indeed doing the right thing. And Dean has just torn away the only reason he had to believe he was not a monster, not a killer... 

“I can offer you records, letters, proof that every word I have spoken is the truth.” Dean says softly. 

“No,” Castiel says, his voice strained, unable to meet Dean’s eyes, “I believe you, your Majesty.”

There’s another long pause, and the enormity of what he has done begins to hit Castiel. Whether or not Dean considered him a friend, there is no doubt that Castiel has crossed every line of propriety between master and servant. If he had dared to say half as much in Asmoira, he would have been executed.

“Your Majesty,” he forces himself to look at Dean, “I apologize for the outburst. It was an unthinkable rudeness.”

“I am happy you brought it to my attention, Cas,” Dean answers, his eyes warm and steady. He clasps Castiel’s shoulder lightly before standing up.

“Take care of yourself, Cas.”

“Thank you, your Highness.” Castiel says, lowering his head, every kind word a reproach. 

+

A bunch of books and letters arrive anyway, delivered to his bedside by one of the library assistants.

Castiel tries to resist, tries to hold on to the last remaining shred of hope and faith he has in Zachariah, but reads them all. There are lengthy compilations of events that took place before the murder of the emissaries, court records, facts and figures, letters written to and fro from the defeated Asmoiran King and Yrnedell’s Crown Prince, letters from Princess Aravael to her lover, and most condemningly, lists of names of the inhabitants that were slaughtered. All collaborating Dean’s story. 

To know that the entire foundation of your life has been little more than a baseless lie is not comfortable. Castiel spends the rest of the night tossing and turning, unable to focus on regenerating his magic, going through the events of the past over and over in his mind.

When morning dawns, bright and cheery, he’s made his decision. 

He’s going to protect Dean Winchester until his last breath. Not because he has to, not because he’s afraid of what Uriel and Raphael might do to him. But because Dean is worth saving.

 


	8. Dean

“Adam says he’s probably going to finish his inspection in time for the midsummer festival,” Sam tells him at breakfast more than a fortnight later.

“That’s good to hear, has he found anything else?” Dean asks him, chewing thoughtfully on his eggs.

“Not much,” Sam says, an apprehensive look coming across his face, “speaking of the festival…”

Dean groans.

“Oh must we do the ball again this year? Last years’ still gives me nightmares. All those people simpering and smiling, their mothers even worse… ugh.”

Sam smiles a little at his disgust before turning pensive again.

“Perhaps we should cancel though, considering what has been happening, if someone tries something in the ball-”

“Then we deal with it,” Dean interrupts. He may hate the dressing up and the dancing and the people, but he’s not going to be a coward about it.

Sam glances at him, spooning some porridge into his mouth. Dean breaks off a piece of bread and butters it, nodding at the wait staff as one of them brings in a dish of bacon.

“Besides,” Dean says after they’re alone again, “you and Adam were the ones who didn’t want to alarm anyone. Cancelling the festival without a valid reason is definitely going to alarm people.”

“It is going too far,” Sam agrees, “but there is something we can do. How about making it a masked ball? You’ll be a little more protected then, not so conspicuous.”

“That is… a really good idea. Have the invitations been sent out yet?”

“Informally, everyone knows of the ball. But we still need to send the official invitations. I’ll make orders to add the line today.”  

“Thanks, Sam.”

“Is your mystery savior still writing to you? I wish you would let me set a trap to catch him.”

“No,” Dean says firmly, “I owe him my life, Sam. If he doesn’t want his identity revealed yet, I will honor his wishes. Besides, he’s proving to be quite a valuable source of information on demons.”

Sam sighs.

“Just- just be careful, Dean. Don’t reveal too much.”

+

_Dean,_

_I was very relieved to hear about your latest decision of transforming the midsummer ball into a masked event. My source tells me the chances of an attack then are pretty high, regardless of your decision. As to your questions about creating an alternate dimension -_

_It takes a great deal of energy to create one, even for a higher level demon. It is also a process that takes a couple of days, so I cannot imagine that it would be possible in the palace grounds. So much uninterrupted time is simply not granted here. Once created, a dimension cannot be destroyed either, by anyone. But your brother must have discovered all this already._

_I also assure you that I have been on the lookout for any suspicious activity within the palace grounds and outside of it. If indeed I find something, I will let you know._

_Stay safe,_

_Well-wisher._

+

The midsummer festival is a three day event, a yearly celebration held in the honor of Yrne and her children. Many people come into Fairhaven for the festivities. All employment is suspended, children are let loose from schools, and almost everyone spends their time in the warm sunshine, enjoying the sights and sounds of the festival; the dances, the kite flying competition, the firework display held on all three nights. When they were children, Dean, Sam and Adam would always sneak off to the main marketplace for a taste of the barley pudding made as a traditional offering to the gods. It always tasted divine then, and no amount of trying to recreate the recipe would ever work in the Royal Kitchens.

The day of the ball dawns bright and clear, the guests having arrived the previous night. Dean spends most of his time socializing awkwardly with them, half his mind on Adam, who is due to arrive any day. Sam is busy with the arrangements, and the brothers barely get a chance to speak alone. Bobby and Rufus are on the lookout too, but so far there’s been nothing.

Lunch is an elaborate affair, with everyone choosing to have it outdoors, admiring the freshly bloomed roses. The palace servants run back and forth, arranging the tables, draping fresh while cloths on top, setting out numerous flower arrangements, trying to keep the food and drinks cool and refreshing. Dean hates the fuss involved, but the custom is a well-established one, and he knows that many consider his kind treatment of the servants a weakness.  

“My glass of grape juice doesn’t seem to have enough ice in it,” Lady Lydia or Layla, Dean can’t remember what, complains.

“I’m extremely sorry Lady Lydia,” one of the newer girls who’ve been hired for the occasion apologizes, whisking away the offending glass and replacing it with another one.

“Let it not happen again,” Lydia says coldly.

Dean grits his teeth a little. As long as his guests are not positively rude to the staff, he’s powerless to stop the abuse of power. As crown prince, he was freer to take the servant’s part, but as the Emperor and the Host of the festival, he can’t afford to create too much unpleasantness.

It doesn’t stop him from biting into his strawberry tart with a little more force than required.

“Your Highness? Prince Samuel wishes to speak to you,” Cas’s low voice sounds from beside him.

“Lead the way, Cas,” Dean says, relief overcoming him.

The crowd parts as they make their way across the gardens, coming to a stop in one of the shady bowers near the western side wall.

“Sam’s not really calling me, is he?” Dean whispers to Cas as he sits down, making sure they were well out of earshot.

“No,” Cas says simply, “pardon me for taking the liberty, but you seemed like you needed a few minutes away.”

Dean smiles at him. There’s a gentle rustling sound as the breeze picks up, bringing with it the heady scent of lavender. Cas’s eyes are blue and soft as they look down at him, and for a moment, Dean feels utterly at peace.

“Thanks, Cas.” he says, “sit beside me, won’t you?”

Cas hesitates a little before sinking down onto the seat beside him. Dean closes his eyes and tips his head back, letting the sunlight hit his face. There are bees buzzing nearby, and an insistent chirping behind him that sounds like a particularly argumentative swallow. He thinks of his brothers, of spending long summer days fishing in the pond, Adam always falling asleep before lunch, his father joining them for cake in the bower in the evenings, Thomas fussing as he applied aloe gel on Dean’s nose.

“What is summer like in Asmoira, Cas?”

There’s a long pause before Cas replies, his voice measured.

“It is the only bearable time of the year, your Highness.”

“Stop addressing me like that when there’s no one else around. You can call me Dean.”

A tinge of red appears on Cas’s cheeks as the other man ducks his head to avoid Dean’s gaze.

“Yes, Dean,” the name is almost a whisper on Cas’s lips, “I... I wanted to thank you. For the books you sent me when I was ill, about Asmoira. I- I am ashamed of my outburst-”

“Don’t be,” Dean says, holding the other man’s gaze, “I needed to know. And I promise you, I will look into the matter. I won’t let atrocities like that continue.”

Cas’s eyes widen, lips parting with surprise. His hands twitch a little before reaching out to grab Dean’s palm.

“Thank you- this means more to me- to all of us than I can ever express.” Cas’s voice is low and earnest, and his grip is almost painful. His blue eyes are filled with a mixture of respect and adoration, and no one has ever looked at Dean like that before.

Dean opens his mouth to answer, but no sound comes out. He lifts a hand to touch Cas’s cheek, his thumb stroking lightly at the corner of Cas’s mouth. The other man trembles at his touch, his chapped lips parting slightly. The summer breeze picks up again, brushing the ends of Cas’s hair against Dean’s hand. And he can resist no more.

Cas makes a small gasping sound as Dean leans forward, claiming those lips in a gentle kiss. It is sweet and chaste and just about perfect, Cas’s long hair silky smooth through his fingers at he tugs at his braid. Cas’s lips taste sweet, of apples and honey, and Dean pulls the other man towards him to deepen the kiss. They continue to kiss for what seems like hours, Cas making breathy little gasps every time Dean bites at his lower lip. Dean runs his hands over the other man’s shoulders, across the broad back, across the dip of his waist.

A robin calls sweetly from somewhere nearby, loud enough to make them break apart. Cas is flushed, his lips spit shiny, his hair half out of its neat braid.     

“You… you should go back to your guests,” he says, voice hoarse.

Dean blinks at him, trying to calm his own racing heart.

“Yes, yes… I probably should.”

He positively runs from the bower, but slips into his own room instead.

What had just happened?

+

“Are you hiding?” Sam’s amused voice sounds from behind him.

Dean huffs, swirling the wine in his glass and fanning himself. The ball is in full swing, no one tiring yet. The hardwood floor gleams beneath the bright lights, the wax making it glisten. There are two huge tables of refreshments laid out, and a large group of chairs next to it, where all the non-dancers are sitting and exchanging gossip.

“I’ve been dancing for two hours straight, I think I deserve a chance to rest my feet.”

“Then why are you peering at the crowd from this alcove instead of mingling with the company at the refreshment table? Not many people even recognize you.”

Dean grimaces under his mask.

“Fine, I admit it. I am hiding. And I wish people would stop using such outrageously strong scents. The last man I danced with must have _bathed_ in jasmine oil, ugh.”

“Didn’t find anyone to your liking?”

Dean thinks of Cas’s blazing blue eyes in the afternoon light and flushes guiltily.

“Not really, no,” Dean murmurs.

He and Sam had insisted the regular staff get a chance to be part of the ball, but there hasn’t been a sign of Cas. He doesn’t even know if he’s relieved or disappointed at the absence, but the fact remains that Cas was his attendant, someone bound to serve him. That was what had scared him in the garden, the sinking feeling that though Cas _seemed_ to be into the kiss, he also may not have felt secure enough to say no to Dean.  

Sam glances at him, the purple mask he’s donning concealing his concern, but Dean knows it well.

“Are you worried about - ”

“No,” And he isn’t. He reflexively touches the amulet he’s tied around his neck, “everything’s under control.”

“Alright then,” Sam says doubtfully, as the song comes to an end. He asks a lovely young lady sitting on the sidelines for a dance, and she accepts.

Dean smirks as he stares after them, downing his wine.

“Would you like to dance?”

Her voice sounds familiar, and Dean realises it’s Lady Lydia.She’s smiling hopefully, all sweetness and charm now that there are no servants to bully.

“I’m sorry, I’m already engaged,” he quips, spotting a man in a teal-blue mask, standing a little away with his arms crossed. He lopes off, ignoring her disappointed huff, bowing to the stranger and kissing his hand. The man startles, but doesn’t protest as Dean sweeps him onto the floor.

“Sorry about that,” Dean whispers to his companion after the dance is well underway, “I didn’t wish to say no to the lady, but I didn’t want to dance with her either.”

“It is alright,” the man whispers low, so low Dean barely hears him though they’re pressed together.

Dean tries to look at him, but his companion seems shy, his eyes fixed on their boots. He’s graceful and solid in Dean’s arms, and the waltz is almost magical as they make their way across the floor.

“You are a good dancer,” Dean says as they whirl around, “you’re the only one who hasn’t trodden on my feet once tonight.”

His companion shakes with laughter, lifting his eyes slightly before casting them down again. Dean freezes, because the flash of those eyes behind the mask, those _very blue_ eyes without the braided hair distracting him, those broad shoulders, the narrow waist that Dean had clasped in the afternoon...

He collects himself quickly and continues with the dance, mind racing. _Cas_. Cas was his mysterious saviour, his correspondent, the one who gave him the amulet. But Cas could not have seen him leave with those demons, could not have guessed he was in danger... unless he knew about the plan in advance. But if he had known all of this, why hadn’t he come to Dean?

And then he remembers Sam’s suspicion of Cas, the attack on Thomas, the poisoning attempt. At every step, Cas.  

The song draws to a close, and Dean bends over Cas’s hand mechanically before gently excusing himself. He needs to find Sam, needs to gather his wits.

“FIRE! FIRE!” someone shouts from the far end of the room. There’s a small, disbelieving hush before someone screams, triggering pandemonium from the crowd.

“CALM DOWN!” Bobby roars at the hysterical dancers, most of whom are pushing and shoving at one another to get to the doors. Dean stands frozen to the spot, his hand going to the amulet.

“THE DOORS ARE LOCKED!” someone else screams. There’s a deafening crash as tables are knocked over, sending the food and wine flying everywhere, the china shattering into a thousand tiny pieces.  

“Dean, come on!” Sam appears out of nowhere, his hand is insistent on Dean’s arm.

Bobby and Rufus are calling for order, the palace guards are milling around, escorting the terrified guests out.

“No.” Dean says, dazed.

“Bobby and Rufus have it under control, we can’t risk you staying in a burning building, come on - ”

“Do you trust me, Sam?” Dean asks him.

“Dean, what - ”

“There’s no fire.”

Sam stares at him like he’s lost his mind.

“There’s no fire, maybe it’s because I’m wearing this, but I swear, it’s all an illusion, the demon is _here_ \- “

“Dean, please!” Sam argues unconvinced, tugging at his arm, “you don’t know. I can see it. I can smell the smoke. How do you know it’s not a trap, that amulet?”

Dean doesn’t answer. With a quick motion, he breaks free and runs towards the other end of the room, ignoring Sam’s frantic shouts. Most of the guests have already been evacuated, and the broken china crunches under his feet as he reaches the billowing windows.

There’s no sign of a demon.

“Dean…” Sam sounds utterly shocked, “it can’t be - I can still see it the flames…”

“I told you,” Dean says, looking around, “help me find him, will you? And stay close to me.”  

“Okay,” Sam nods a little shakily, “I will.”

Dean rips apart every tapestry and curtain with his sword, Sam touching the walls for signs of magic residue. The pounding of feet and screaming have stopped a little, leaving the ballroom deserted. Dean knows no one must have noticed their absence yet, everyone preoccupied with themselves. Bobby and Rufus must have assumed Sam whisked him away.

“Dean, wait…” Sam stops at an alcove with his palm raised, his brow furrowed.

“Traces of demonic energy?”

“It’s very faint, but I can’t tell how old it is...” Sam raises an eyebrow at him, “what do you see though? With that magic amulet of yours?”

“Nothing,” Dean admits, dropping down to his knees to examine the floor.

“Adam?” Sam’s voice rings out in happy surprise above him. “You came at just the right time.”

Dean lifts his head. A tall man stands in front of them, smiling widely, teeth gleaming white. His eyes are a bright, unearthly yellow.

“I hope I wasn’t too late.” the man drawls, his voice raspy.

“That’s not Adam,” Dean grabs Sam’s arm, standing up and reaching for his sword. Sam stiffens beside him, but reaches for his own weapon as well.

The demon laughs, shrill and high.

“No need to keep up the charade I see,” the demons grimaces a little, “well, all the better for me.”

“What have you done with our brother, demon?” Sam hisses out.

“I prefer the name Azazel. And Adam? He’s perfectly safe and sound, don’t you worry about that. You see,” the demon sneers, “we only want the actual Winchester brothers dead, not the little bastard. Nice work making this blasted ball masked, it was taking me forever to hone in on you both… a fake fire would have smoked you out, and so it did.”

Dean nudges Sam and springs forward, hitting out at Azazel. The demon dodges the attack, but Sam’s already reaching out… and misses.

“How did that - ”

“He’s confusing your senses,” Dean bites out as low as he can, “okay, change of plans. You feint.”  

Sam nods and attacks. Azazel ducks and dodges, pulling out two long, thin blades from his robes as he does so. Dean jumps in, grazing Azazel’s arm as he does so.

“To the right, Sam!”

Sam darts out of the way, narrowly avoiding the slash.

“Oooh, looks like someone’s not really playing fair,” the demon sneers, but Dean can sense a touch of rage underneath, “well then…”

He lunges toward Dean, slashing back and forth. Dean parries the moves, but the force and speed of Azazel’s attacks force him to be defensive. Sam circles them, looking for an opening to attack.

There’s a flicker of movement suddenly as Cas leaps toward them, staff in hand. He knocks one of Azazel’s blades off, sending it clattering across the floor. Sam nods at Dean, and the two of them attack Azazel, forcing the demon to back away toward the wall.

“Well, well, well…” Azazel gasps, “if it isn’t little Castiel. Zachariah _did_ warn me about you.”

“Cas?” Sam whispers, confused.

Azazel laughs.

“You didn’t know? The rumors about the Emperor not being the sharpest tool in the shed does hold true,” he knocks the staff out of Cas’s hand and grabs him, holding his blade to Cas’s throat, “dear Castiel here is one of Asmoira’s most skilled Illusion mages - it is due to _his_ tireless efforts that your lovely impregnable home has been breached at all. I thank you Castiel,” the demon smiles down at Cas, “your updates have been most valuable. Too bad you’re not going to stay alive to see the fruits of your hard work.”


	9. Castiel

The demon’s arms are like bands of steel, forcing Castiel to remain where he is. Sam’s eyes are calculating as his hand twitches slightly. Castiel tries to catch Dean’s eye, but the other man is completely stoic, his green eyes fixed firmly on Azazel. 

“It’s been a pleasure working with you, Castiel, but I’m afraid I don’t have the time to chat any longer,” Azazel says, his yellow eyes narrowing. He shoves Castiel forward, grabbing him by the neck and squeezing hard. Castiel can feel his eyes rolling back into his head as he tries to soundlessly mutter an incantation, but his concentration is failing, and the corners of his vision start to blacken as Azazel swings his blade….

And utters a grunt as his grip slackens, Sam having sliced at the demon’s arm. Castiel falls to his knees, gasping. He just about lifts his head enough to see his own silver blade being pushed into the demon’s chest by Dean, Azazel uttering a loud, shrill, scream as his body collapses.

“Is he dead?” Sam asks, getting to his feet and wincing slightly. 

“Looks to be,” Dean mutters, taking out the blade and re-sheathing it, “no blood, just like the other two. Now come on, we need to find Adam.”

“Prince Adam is safe,” Castiel says hesitantly. The brothers stare at him, Sam’s hand tightening slightly on the edge of his sword, “my- uh, colleague sent me a message earlier- that’s how I knew Azazel was already in the palace… I came to the ball hoping to find him before… before it was too late.”

“Where is he?” Sam asks him sharply, not relaxing his stance. 

“At the Lotus inn in the red-light district, one of our safe zones. Samandriel is healing him as we speak.”

“Send Bobby with some soldiers, Sam. I’m sure Rufus is still swamped with the guests,” Dean barks out, “and come back here.”

Sam nods jerkily and strides away. Castiel remains slumped, still on his knees in front of Dean. He knows neither brother would be in favor of letting him live after they find out the whole story from him. His heart clenches painfully within his chest. Death had never really fazed him - not even as a child in Asmoira. People just died, it was a fact of life. When Zachariah had given him the assignment he had been fully aware of the consequences. He had no particular links to his country, no friend except Samandriel, no home, no family. And he had never felt the need for them.

His months in Fairhaven, his time spent alongside Dean though… They had spoilt him. He had stopped existing, drifting, obeying orders without question. It was in Fairhaven that he had truly felt like he had a home, it was Dean who made him want to  _ live _ . 

“It’s done,” Sam says, “he’s not very happy at what happened, but Rufus assured me he’ll make sure no one leaves the palace just yet.”

“Good,” Dean says in a distant voice.

There’s a little pause.

“I think now is the time to explain, Castiel.” Sam tells him, his tone bland. 

And Castiel does, looking at neither of them. He can’t face them while he explains the entire plot, from injuring Thomas to ‘poisoning’ the food. He talks about Uriel and Raphael, their betrayal of him and Samandriel, and the aftermath. Neither brother interrupts, hearing him out carefully.

“And that is the entire truth?” Sam asks him after his recital. 

“I have concealed nothing.” Castiel asserts, finally daring to look up.

Dean is looking straight at him, his face completely blank, his eyes cold. The sight pains him more than he anticipates. 

“You may do what you wish with me,” Castiel says hesitantly, “but spare my companion. He has a family back home, his parents and siblings await his return. We had little choice but to accept the mission, and he has never… he has only ever followed orders.”

“If Adam approves,” Sam says thoughtfully, “he may live.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says, bending his head, “and I… I apologize. It means nothing in the face of what I have done, but I am truly - I am sorry.”    

There’s a long, uncomfortable pause. Castiel remains where he is, anticipating the click of the sheath, the swish of the blade.  _ At least it’ll be quick _ . 

“Get up, Cas.” Dean’s gruff voice makes Castiel look up, surprised. 

“Dean, what...” Sam mutters, but Dean waves him off. 

“Your Maj - “

“I told you to call me Dean.”

Castiel gapes at him, unable to say a word. Dean extends a hand and he takes it dazedly, letting himself be helped to his feet. 

“We don’t have too many people from Asmoira working in the palace,” Dean says, apropos of nothing, “but the day after your… outburst,” Castiel flushes guiltily, but Dean holds his hand fast,“I talked to every single one of them. And surprisingly, they all told me Asmoira didn’t pay a tribute.”

Castiel stares at him in shock. 

_ That can’t be. The yearly tax was such a well known phenomenon that it couldn’t  possibly be -  _

“When I started  _ really _ persuading them though, they came out with the truth… and a very inconvenient truth it was too,” Dean says calmly, meeting Cas’s stunned gaze, “I’m surprised the people of Asmoira haven’t tried to assassinate me every day, seeing the reputation Yrnedell’s rule has there.”

Castiel flushes guiltily at that. Sam is looking at Dean, incredulous. 

“Let me put it this way, Cas,” Dean continues, “if I was in your place, I probably would have done the same thing. And as far as the world is concerned, there’s no evidence linking you and your friend - Samandriel, is it? - to today’s incident. All I ask from you both is your allegiance to me now.”

“You already have it, and I speak for the both of us.”

At this statement, the other man smiles a little, leaf green eyes lighting up. 

“Good,” Dean says, squeezing his hand a little, “I know Zachariah has links with demons. If Yrnedell is to stand up to Neberzyias, we need to take care of Asmoira first. And I want to create as little bloodshed as possible, as your people have suffered quite enough. Swear to me, Castiel, that you will help me with this.”

“I swear,” Castiel says unhesitatingly, “regardless of the consequences.”

“Time to go and face my very upset guests then,” Dean sighs, dropping Castiel’s hand.

“That’s my cue to go,” Sam says quickly, before Dean hauls him back, “I need to go check on Adam, Dean, come on…”

They bicker back and forth as they head toward the doors, and Castiel finds himself staring after them, a fond smile on his face.

He is home.

“You coming, Cas?” Dean asks him as they’re about to leave.

“Of course.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, thank you for reading! We hope you enjoyed it :) If you'd like to drop by at the art post, you can find it here on AO3 and our master post here on Tumblr.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Drama](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9789791) by [delicirony (deliciousirony)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliciousirony/pseuds/delicirony)




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